Hollow Crown
by MoonBlue22
Summary: "Fathers shall not be put to death because of their children, nor shall children be put to death because of their fathers. Each one shall be put to death for his own sin" Deuteronomy 24:16. Features OC characters, as well as historical figures pertaining to Vlad III Dracul.
1. Prologue

**The Hollow Crown**

Prologue

**And nothing can we call our own but death**

* * *

**And tell sad stories of the death of kings;  
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,  
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;  
Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;  
All murder'd: for within the hollow crown  
That rounds the mortal temples of a king  
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,**

* * *

**Wallachia 1486**

The cloth was more piss than gold, and slopped over disjointed limbs and damp silk, it looked more like a peasant's blanket than a princely shroud; a river of sickly yellow piss cascading over yet another corpse. The third that month.

"May God have mercy on her poor soul," murmured Father Aurel piously, his fat fingers tracing the shape of a cross over the broken body. "God grant her peace in his eternal kingdom. _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spirtus Sancti. _Amen.

"Amen," echoed congregation, bald heads bowed and glistening in the candlelight. "God have mercy, Amen."

"Close her eyes, boy. Give the poor creature some peace," wheezed Father Aurel, shuffling away from the damp corpse as fast as his wobbly legs could carry him. Novice Ionel helped him descended the crooked steps, his own bulbous nose surreptitiously buried in the voluptuous sleeves of his tattered brown robes.

The boy sympathised. When he moved towards the frail carcass, the rotting stench of the Mother breathed over him, all clammy and sour, trickling down the back of his throat.

He forced back bile, his fingers reaching out to touch a face that was almost slimy to the touch, greased by the river, and so cold it could have been carved out of ice.

They would not close; those dreadful eyes had followed him all afternoon. They had wanted her dressed for burial, and he had tried, tried so hard to make her look beautiful, to look sweet and haunting like something out of the stories, or the songs.

An hour he had spent, just brushing her hair until those limp locks were as smooth and soft as lamb's wool, spun out around her like an ebony halo. He had tried to gentle those features, to unclench her tightened fists, to wash the blood from her face; from her belly and from her legs, where it had been pasted like thick brown treacle around a child's mouth.

It had all been for naught. Her face remained terrible; ghoulishly pale, her cheeks swollen, bruise and bloated to the touch, like rotting fruit. A puckered line jarred down from her widow's peak. Livid and pink, it slashed down her hooked nose to the tips of her pale lips, lowered into an eternal grimace.

_An angry corpse_, he had thought when she had washed up. _A scorned lover or a grieving mother. _He had spent an age trying to pry open her cold clenched fists, and even then all it had earned him was a lump of rusted steel.

Her eyes had been the worst though. Jade, and bloodshot white, they had looked up at him and seemed to scream. _I will see you, _they taunted, _in your dreams. _Like the baby that had washed up almost a moon ago, that was buried under an apple tree in the yard.

Now Father Aurel expected him to wrestle them shut before Brother Joszef and Brother Imrus. Three times her tried before Brother Imrus lost patience and mounted the steps, shoving him aside so forcefully that he almost toppled down the steps.

"Now may she sleep," muttered the monk, but even with the eyes shut she didn't look like she was sleeping. She was the most miserable corpse the boy had ever laid eyes on, and that was including fat old Brother Adam who'd been too big to ride his mule by the end, and had died squatted on his chamber pot.

Once it was done, Brother Imrus walked with him back to the stables. The boy liked Brother Imrus, even if Brother Imrus didn't seem to like the boy, or his other brothers, or even the Abbott, or anyone except the mules, and the stray half-feral cats that held dominion over the barn.

"You still got the cross?" the monk asked, ducking as they entered the barn.

Old Silver gave a low whiney when she saw them, and tossed back her head to dislodge a fly. The boy scratched behind her ears, breathing in the warm stench of straw, piss, shit, and donkey. Compared the reek coming off the dead girl, it was as fragrant as lavender oil and incense.

"Yes Brother," he said dutifully, bringing the silver out of his tunic. It wasn't even delicate or light like a lady's was supposed to be. It was heavy and chipped, and the silver on the chain was almost blackened to copper. A man's cross. _Her lover's, _he had supposed but now he wondered. _Her husband's?_

"Keep it safe," ordered Brother Imrus brusquely. "If you lose that boy, I'll shove a broom so far up your arse, it'll reach somewhere not even the old Prince could find."

"Yes Brother," said the Boy, reaching over to pat old Silver's neck. Brother Imrus was always threatening him, and boxing his ears, but the boy didn't mind. If he was in a mood, the monk would tell stories to him of the wars, and if the boy brought him wine, sometimes he'd tell him other stories as well.

"Was it really _her_?" the boy asked, after he heard the magical sound of a gasping throat gurgling back something red, thick, and probably sour.

"Aye," said Brother Imrus, sighing like a saved man, "Aye boy. It was her. God have mercy."

"She didn't look like what I thought," said the boy, picking up a bristled, thorny old brush. He began to stroke it through Old Silver's mane, and couldn't help but wonder that the stubborn old mule was better groomed than _she _had been.

The monk chuckled, taking another swig of wine as he cast a dark eye over him. "Seen many ladies then boy? Did Lord Markus parade his daughters before your father at the forge? Or did you dine with them up at the palace?"

The boy scowled and said nothing. _I ain't never seen royalty before, but I've seen ladies. _When he was a boy, he'd grown up in a village up near _Risiorii_ and once Lord Markus had come riding through his wife and other nobles.

All of _them _had worn furs, and silks, and pearls at their necks. They'd flittered through on litters and thoroughbreds, like fairies from a song, with laughter on their lips and diamonds on their fingers. _They were real ladies. From the tales._

"She has his look," remarked the monk quietly, his hands pausing before they brought the cask up to his lips. "Or at least she has his eyes. I'll never forget those eyes."

_Neither will I, _the boy knew. He could still see them now. _God protect me. God forgive me._

"God have mercy on her. God have mercy on _them. _It'll all go to hell now. I wouldn't want to be _them _turning up empty handed. That'll be a pretty picture…." The monk chuckled, and but the look in his eye was almost hungry.

The boy said nothing. There was nothing to say. People fought, people died. When he was younger, he'd wanted to be a solider, but now they were dredged up so often in the river, that he was glade he was going to be a monk.

Monks didn't die cold and wet, they died fat and holy, if they were clever enough, and they ate three times a day, and drank strong ale or sour wine. He'd die in his bed. He would go peacefully in his sleep like Father Ioan or Brother Nicu, dreaming of the apostles and the angels.

"She still didn't look right," said the boy, later once Old Silver, Young Bastard and Pretty Pip had been attended too. By then Brother Imrus was curled up under the eaves on an empty stall, his chin tilted back, black eyes gazing up at nothing but clammy wood and sleeping crows.

"You wouldn't look so pretty after a stint in the Mother either. Or were you expecting Princess Luana to wash up? You are a stupid idiot," said Brother Imrus scornfully.

Heat rushed to the boy's cheeks and he turned his head away.

She _should _have been pretty, he wanted to say. She should have looked sad and graceful, with ivory cheeks and a gown of black silk. _That _was how they always appeared in the songs. Except she hadn't been and it wasn't right. _She should have been like Princess Luana or Ileana Cosánzeana. _

Then he could have made a story about her; he could have wrote it down now he knew his letters, and the other monks would have read it, and old Father Aurel would have wept, and some bard somewhere would hear of it and make a ballad to play to the Bishop or the Lords and Ladies at court.

He could have made her into _something_. Washed up and mutilated, she was nothing. Just another dead girl dragged in from the river. She hadn't even looked much older than _him_.

_Nothing, _thought the boy, drifting into an uneasy sleep. _You're nothing now, Princess. _

**OoOoOoOoOoO**

**I apologise for once again redrafting my chapters. I pinky-promise that this will be the last time, and that I will hopefully be updating more regularly now that I have some free time on my hands! Thank you all for your patience. Or if you are completely new to this story, then please ignore the aforementioned note, and continue on. **

***Princess Luana and Ileana Cosánzeana are heroines from traditional Romanian folklores. **


	2. The Antic Sits

**The Hollow Crown**

Chapter One

**The Antic Sits**

* * *

**May 1991**

**Bucharest, Romania**

The letter, once read, was commenced to the flames and thereafter he sat a while, nursing a glass of _Corvina_, watching as black ink bled in thick clots down paper, browning and crumpling, like a leaf in autumn. Then, just to be thorough, he jabbed the withered remains with an iron poker until they broke apart and were scattered across the corpses of pale coals and charred logs.

"Fuck," he declared to the room aloud, his eyes wandering from the gilded photograph that occupied the prize position on his desk, to the oil paintings and saintly effigies hanging above the hearth. "Fuck."

He then proceeded to kick a footstool to mild success, shiny Valentino leather denting against polished mahogany. It had the decency, at least, to stagger over towards the Persian rug, but the pulsating throbbing in his index toe told him he was an idiot, and a probably a drunken idiot to boot.

_My Uncle was a drunkard, though men called him a holy fool. _Was not that not what he had heard, from the horse's mouth no less? Yet if he was recalling such things, smiling at such things, then he had not drunk enough. Not nearly enough.

He drained the rest of the glass in a single gulp and then picked up the phone. It was time, though as he dialled the number, he could feel pitiless gaze of long-dead martyrs watching him from the walls.

"Sir? Sir?" called the voice of his personal assistant, pushing him forcefully out of his reverie.

"Gavril," he murmured hoarsely, his fingers worrying the gold band stretched across his skin. "I need Gavril to bring the car round." _I need Liora. I need my wife. Where is my wife?_

"The car, sir?" repeated Anya. She was probably one of _theirs._

"Yes. The car," he said impatiently, "As soon as possible. No. Immediately. Can you manage _that_?"

"Yes sir. As you wish sir," said Anya coolly, and if she sounded offended by his venomous demeanour, then she was at least, very good at hiding it. The line snapped dead and he hung up the receiver. In the time it took for the phone to ring again, he had already poured another glass and was halfway through drinking it.

He was too restless; his blood was bubbling in his veins; his insides felt like a can of coke that had just been shaken up by a five-year old on Prozac. Adrenaline. _Insanity. _

Perhaps it was contagious; a virus that had spread through his system, brought on by too many long, feverish nights; too many gunshots fired; too many black body-bags laid out over muddy fields.

Maybe it had been resting in him his entire life and was only now raising its drowsy head; a cancer sleeping in his blood, ready and waiting to mutate; a recessive gene to which he had fallen victim.

When Gavril rang with the car, the obnoxious noise nearly had him reaching for his revolver. _The car, _he told himself, _it's just the car. _He shrugged on his coat and tucked the revolver into the inside pocket. As he stepped out of the office, it was Anya herself who greeted him in the hall. _Anya Polanski. _Or at least that was what the file handed to him two years ago had said. According to her resume, she was thirty-two years old, single, Polish and a graduate of _the __Dimitrie Cantemir Christian University__, _with an outstanding degree in Public Relations and Marketing.

If it was a lie, then God alone knew what she was or where she was from. When he met her at the bottom of the stairs, she was holding his hat in her hands, and offered it to him with one of her usual vacant smiles.

"It's raining outside, sir," she said brightly, brushing a strand of blond hair from out of her eyes, "Monsoon weather. Are you sure you don't want to wait until morning?"

"I'm quite sure," he said, accepting the hat. It was the one his brother had bought him five years ago after a trip to London. He had considered throwing the damn thing into a furnace but that would be quite as pointless as asking Gavril to plough the Bentley into the canal.

"As you wish. If anyone phones, what do you want me to say?" she asked.

"I'm at the Franz. I won't be back until later. Have them leave a message."

"Your Mother…"

_Damn that woman. _"I am indisposed. Tell her whatever lie you find most convenient." _She won't believe a word of it. _Yet she was hardly going to bestir herself from Athens in the next four hours. _I sincerely hope. _One never knew.

"I will do, sir," said Anya, her lips twitching, "and if her Highness should call?"

_Liora. _He closed his eyes but he could feel his brain banging against the inside of his skull, as though seeking release from its fleshy prison. Ah Liora. _Will this please you now? _Would it please him?_ Damn them both. Damn me. Damn me. _

"Tell her where I am. Have her call forwarded on to my suite." He would far rather speak to Liora than his mother. He _owed _Liora that much. And there was still time. _I am clutching at straws; might as well pray for snow in the Sahara. For blood out of a stone._

"Of course. Well…have a nice evening sir. Try not to drown. You might want a snorkel for getting back," joked Anya, flashing him a grin that reminded him somewhat of _her. _

For a moment he felt positively ridiculous for doubting her; soft-spoken Anya with her bedraggled hair and tulip-shaped earring; quick-witted Anya who would go out to Starbucks for him, who knew exactly how he took his tea, and where to find the best quality of wine; saintly Anya, who seemed to unpick the tangled mess that was his life, and structure it into something that resembled normality.

She deserved better, he knew, and he had never quite realised how fond of her he was. Perhaps it was the wine speaking. He pecked her on the cheek on his way out. It was definitely the wine speaking.

_Liora. Liora. Liora _it whispered, _Traitor. Traitor. Traitor. _

Outside it was indeed pissing it down with all the enthusiasm of a Scottish spring. The raindrops fell and flickered in the lamplight like dying fireflies sinking to the ground. The wind nibbled at his neck and toyed with the fastenings of his cravat, whilst his hat attempted to cede independence from his head with all the vicious effort of an American blue coat.

Burly old Ivan approached him, trying to wrestle an umbrella to life, whilst little Gavril appeared to be clinging to the Bentley door in an effort to remain upright. He clambered into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him as Ivan blustered in through the adjacent door, grisly grey hair plastered to his ruddy cheeks.

"Wh-Where to…"gasped Gavril from the front, emerging from the downpour, a damp sheen clinging to his olive skin.

"The Franz," he said.

Next to him, Ivan threw him a sidelong glance, his watery blue eyes crinkling behind those ridiculous spectacles. He could practically see the man inhaling, his nostrils flaring. Discretion was not one of Ivan's virtues, though at just shy of six foot eight, it was hard not hard to imagine why this particularly lesson had escaped him.

"Are you sure, sir?" he asked, his voice surprisingly soft for such a mountainous man.

"Yes. Yes, I am," he snapped. Ivan, unlike Anya, looked visibly wounded and exchanged a _look _with Gavril. The _look_ did not reassure him. He'd seen Liora exchange enough _looks _with his mother to know what it meant.

_Liora…_his hands tugging at the limp remains of his cravat. The car purred to life, gliding around the corner away. He could still hear his heart gushing in his ears. _Liora. Liora. Liora. _He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the seats. He needed another drink. The wine had not been enough for this.

"You seem uneasy tonight," remarked Ivan, withdrawing a boiled sweet from the pocket of his waistcoat. "Do you want a Worther?"

He accepted the sweetie and the taste of sour wine was washed away with smooth toffee. He did not bother wasting his breath to refute the obvious, but nor did he offer any further explanation. For a while, the only sounds he could hear was the thrum of the engine, the _thack _of rain pelting the darkened glass, and Ivan's gums sucking on honey coloured _Worthers_.

Some twenty minutes later they arrived. Gavril ushered him out of the car, curly hair dragged in all directions by the wind. Ivan followed him, like an obedient sheepdog policing the footsteps of its master, up the stony steps towards the warmth and comfort of the Franz Club.

The boy who greeted them in the foyer did not improve his mood, nor did the incredulous look of nervous awe on his face. _If you start making a fuss, I'll take that name-badge and force it down your throat until it pieces your vocal chords, Laszlo Olaf. _

"Oh! Shall I take your coat? Or your hat?" exclaimed the boy, his cheeks flushed with excitement, as he bounded like an overexcited terrier, yapping at their heels. "D-Do you want a drink? Or-

"-I'll be retiring to my suite," he interjected quickly, before Laszlo's enthusiasm caught the attention of the patrons drinking in the lounge.

"Of course sir. Right this way sir. Shall I have a drink sent up? Are you expecting company? Would you perhaps like something to eat, or-"

"Two scotches. On the rocks. No, no, I don't need led up. I'm quite capable of finding my way," he barked, mounting the gilded staircase. The boy seemed entirely unperturbed, in fact his face lit up as he folded the dripping coat over his arm.

"Right, of course. I'll have Klaus bring them up sir!" he cried, and then he scuttled away towards the cloak room, and then probably towards the kitchens so he could announce the newest arrival to the populous.

Most likely none of them would be all that impressed. The Franz Club was a petri dish for gentlemen of a certain class; ministers, ambassadors, civil servants, philanthropists, actors, singers, millionaires, billionaires; if you had the right name, you could have an armchair, a newspaper, and an impenetrable sanctuary away from the vultures of the media, waiting to fight for a scrap of your miserable carcass.

He had his own suite on the third floor. It was across from the Prime Minister's, and directly above the Hungarian ambassador's.

"Wait here for me," he told Ivan, as they approached the suite. Ivan seemed rather taken aback at the request, but nodded and took position outside the door. _Ah Ivan. Not you. Never you. If only you knew. _

He shut the door and found his hands were shaking. He was conscious, more than ever, of how heavy the gun felt pressed against his chest. How many years since he had felt like this? _Five? Six? Ten? _

He wandered over towards the window and drew apart the thick burgundy drapes. The monotonous curtain of rain did not abate any, nor show any mercy towards those unfortunate enough to be braving the streets that night. In the distance, the colossal form of Patriarchal Cathedral loomed, pale masonry illuminated by soft golden light. It was a Sunday. He wondered how many of the faithful had steeled themselves to say their prayers, or if they perceived the weather as some sort of holy trial to be tempered and conquered. _Good luck, _he could feel laughter bubbling on his lips. _Good luck with your Jesu. _

When the boy arrived with the Scotch, he found himself flinching once more, his fingers intimately acquainted with the whereabouts of the revolver's trigger.

_No. _He did not even want to imagine the headlines if he were to shoot an innocent usher. The boy might be a nuisance but he didn't merit a bullet to the head, nor the headache that was sure to follow him after. Though it might be worth it just to see…_just to see their wretched faces when they realise they have to clean up another mess. _And who knew, maybe they would clean him up to? _I would like to see them try it. _

"Here you go sir," said Laszlo, setting the crystal glasses carefully down on the desk. "Are you sure you don't want anything else? A paper? Cigar?"

"No. Nothing else. Thank you Laszlo," he said, and the boy was all smiles and freckles as he departed the room. _Handsome boy. _Maybe he had some girl he could rattle this story out to later. He picked up the glass, admiring the amber liquid sloshing against the sparkling crystal, before he mercilessly consumed it, as though it were water from the Holy Grail itself.

The other he left. _Not long now. _ And he waited some more, until the sound of a phone shrieking lured him away from the window.

Five minutes later the sound of a gun being fired screamed out into the night, and outside the rain continued to fall as thunder trembled across the sky.

The phone lay off the hook. The line had gone dead.

* * *

**So this story will be set primarily in the early 90s, meaning that at some point we will get teenage Integra, which could be interesting. Originally I wasn't going to include her much in the plot until later, but I've decided to introduce her earlier because I think the idea of exploring a younger Integra could be interesting. **

**Once again, please forgive the rewrite. Or if your new, ignore this completely. Regardless, please feel free to review and let me know what you think. **

**\- MoonBlue22 **


	3. The Boy named Pierto

**The Hollow Crown**

Chapter Two

**The Boy named Pierto**

* * *

**September 1991**

**Edinburgh, Scotland**

The innocuous, and entirely immaculate black shirt stared up at them from its oasis of crisp blue linen. Neat little buttons winked in the lamplight. _Please, _it seemed to beg, like a virginal maiden in a gossamer nightgown, _don't rob me of my virtue. _

"You know this is nothing, _nothing, _compared to what Oskar is arriving as," said Rob, lighting the end of his cigarette.

"Don't tell me," said Pierto weakly, "He's going as the Archbishop of somewhere or another." _You are a damned man. _In his mind's eye, he could already see Sister Martha approaching, her lips bared into a thin wispy line.

"No. He's going all out and coming as the Pope. His sister's making him a paper hat and everything," said Rob remorselessly, sticking the half-finished fag behind his ear for safekeeping.

"St Peters. It's the Crown of St Peter's," said Pierto, remembering the lofty dome that had graced the head of Christ's Vicar. "You know I've met the Pope. He gave me some rosary beads."

Rob pondered this piece of information. "You could lend them to Oskar. It might add some authenticity to it. Does it say on them that they're from the Pope?"

"Are you honestly asking me if I have the Pope's autograph?" asked Pierto, snorting back a laugh as his dug his hands into his pockets. "You know he doesn't sign them."

_Where are you? Ah hah! _He withdrew a small tin box and began to stretch out a roll of brittle white paper. There was just something innately satisfying about sprinkling out a straight dark line of tobacco and continuing it into a tight, perfectly cylindrical rollup.

"Not got a stamp on them or anything?" Rob continued thoughtfully.

"_Nol_. They're in the box on top of my wardrobe though if you want to check," offered Pierto, fumbling with his lighter until it produced a wobbly amber flame. He raised the nicotine to his lips and took a deep drag, savouring the deliciously foul flavour of smoke and ash.

"I see them," said Rob, stretching up a hairy arm towards the heavens. His hammy fingers brushed along the calloused wood until they met the polished rosemary casing.

_If you drop that…_but no, Rob grabbed it firmly and pried the lid open to reveal the innards, lined with purple velvet.

"Sure this isn't your ma's?" laughed the Scotsman.

_No. It was a gift from my Father. _This information was hardly likely to improve the situation though, and Pierto had signed up for a year of living with the specimen of post-pubescent manhood before him.

He shrugged and took another drag, trying hard to wince as Rob's mucky jeans connected with his fresh lilac-scented linen. _It can be washed. _Rob picked out the onyx beads and gave them a cursory jangle that sent his teeth rattling. _Good God, he's not actually looking for a signature is he?_

"No bad," said Rob, placing them back inside in a coiled heap that Pierto knew he would inevitably have to unpick. "So you reckon Oskar could borrow them?"

"If he wants," said Pierto nonchalantly, drumming a restless finger against the meagre desk shoved against the back wall.

"Class. You coming to Malone's tomorrow?"

"Maybe. I've got a doctor's appointment in the afternoon," said Pierto. _Not a complete lie. _

"Aye. Fair enough. See you there then," said Rob, the springs on his bed sighing with relief as the Scotsman departed his room with a cursory wave.

Pierto refolded the shirt and placed it carefully inside the chest of drawers. It had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time, and truthfully, at five in the morning, after six shots of Jaeger, worse plans had been conceived. However, six hours later, his brain reduced to a fluffy ball of wasp infested candy floss, he was starting to have second thoughts. And third thoughts.

_I am definitely living up to the stereotype, _he mused, opening his window so the cigarette fumes could escape into the damp arms of a Scottish downpour. After the previous evening's crescendo of hail and thunder, the current lacklustre drizzle felt somewhat anticlimactic, as though the weather too, was suffering from a hangover, regurgitating what was left of last night's sleet onto the pavement and Lothian buses below.

Three hours, twenty-seven minutes until his first lecture, which made it roughly two hours and fifty-six minutes until he had to leave. Pierto gathered up the beads and shoved them into his pocket with the tobacco tin. He would deal with them later. Right now he craved a distraction, and he found it stashed under his pillow.

_Uncanny X-Men. _Jean Gray was about to join forces with the Hellfire club to capture the X-Men.

_I have read this half a hundred times. _The thick volumes, brand new and untouched from Waterstones, remained still on his shelf. _Yet another stereotype to live up to. And who am I to disappoint? _He rolled over on to his side, scotch air breathing down his neck as he turned the well-worn pages, once again reliving the nail-biting trepidation of his eight year old self, contained inside the pages.

Then there was a knock. A tap so gentle, he almost didn't hear it, but then it was followed by another. And another.

"Coming!" he yelled, tucking the comic book away under his pillow. It was most likely not Rob. Rob didn't do knocking, as he'd discovered half-way through getting changed last night.

_Bird-girl? _He didn't know the name of the Hungarian girl who slept two doors down from him. Only that she emerged every night at eight o'clock to heat up tomato soup in the microwave before retreating to her nest to blast out music that sounded a lot like a chorus of eagle's being battered to death with a guitar.

He opened the door. It wasn't bird-girl. Though it was, in fact, a girl.

"Um…hi…" she said, giving a nervous little wave. "I'm Emma…would you…would you mind giving me a hand? Er…do you know much about TV's?"

Her eyes wandered his face with usual pinch of surprise, before manners caught up with her and she lowered them to the floor, her cheeks flushing. Pierto, long used to such looks, politely ignored her curiosity, and nodded.

"Welsh?"

"Er…sorry?"

"Welsh. You're Welsh aren't you?" said Pierto, stepping out into the corridor.

"Yeah…and you're…French?"

Pierto shook his head and chuckled. "Close. Well. Not really. I suppose you could class me as Italian but I'm a bit of a mongrel."

She smiled. It was a nice smile, he couldn't help but notice. A sweet smile, though the word _sweet_ could quintessentially sum her up from her mass of copper curls to the blue cat cooing at him from the front of her jumper. She was also quite pretty, incidentally, though she wore the nervous look of the perpetually apprehensive.

"How'd you know I was Welsh?" she asked, beckoning him down the corridor past bird-girl's domain. "I mean…the other Italian, y'know Alexia? She thought I was Irish."

He didn't know Alexia. It was odd how everyone seemed to automatically assume that all the foreigners knew each other. _Maybe we don't integrate enough? _The American girls Rob had been chatting to last night certainly seemed to travel around like a flock of giggling hens.

"I have a friend who's Welsh," he said, though he didn't really want to think of her. "Well, half Welsh. Born in Cardiff anyway. So TV. What's the problem?"

"It's not working right. I don't know if it's the signal or…" she trailed off as she pushed open the door to her bedroom; another long lost fraternal twin to his own accommodation.

Unlike his glorified cell though, hers was still half-naked. There were cardboard boxes lying under her bed; the cracks trickling down from the ceiling had yet to be covered with an appropriate poster, and there was a television perched precariously on the edge of her desk, almost nudged off by a vast collection of Bronte classics and Anne Rice novels.

"I only got here the other day," said Emma, brushing a curl out of her face. "I'm the last to arrive, aren't I? How many is there?"

"On this floor, ten," said Pierto, eyeing the fuzzy lines blurry across the screen. It was like looking at an artist's impression of the inside of his head.

"Ten," repeated Emma, almost breathlessly.

"Not as bad as the other block. I think they have fifteen and one toilet," said Pierto bending down to diagnose his electronic patient.

"Eww…." Said Emma, wrinkling her nose. "I think I'd rather pitch a tent up outside."

"There's a bus shelter down the street," suggested Pierto, tilting his head and adopting what he sincerely hoped was a knowing expression.

He hovered over the tangled mass of wires and prodded one of them earnestly. It would probably not be best to employ the method of correction he normally reserved for his own appliances.

"Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?" asked Emma hopefully.

"Er…Sie…, if you're sure it's not too much trouble?"

Emma smiled again, and eagerly rebuffed the idea before stretching the offer to include a slice of her mother's homemade carrot cake.

Pierto nodded and waited until she was gone from the room before giving the television set one last examination, and chance for mercy. When the wave of grey and black lines declined, he raised his fist and brought it down on top of the monitor.

The uneasy sea of monotone blinked at him; there was a squirt of colour behind the glass, and a very proper English accent called to him.

"_And today at her royal residence in Balmoral, Her Majesty the Queen, was pleased to greet the Queen Dowager of Romania. This occasion marks the Queen Dowager's first official outing since the unfortunate-_

"Oh! Is it working?"

"Almost," said Pierto, giving the set another furtive bash as Emma re-entered the room, her arms laden with two mugs of coffee and what looked like half a cake, complete with pale icing.

-_And now for the weather with Fiona McKenzie. So Fiona-_

"Well at least we've got sound," said Emma, setting down the cake on the desk next to him.

"Sie. To every cloud…" said Pierto, hunching back to admire what several hard _thumps _had accomplished. There was, if you squinted hard enough, a pinkish outline of the weatherwoman, though it looked like she'd swallowed a beach ball.

"They're always pregnant," remarked Emma, raising the mug with TMNT splashed across its face, to her lips. "Last one was so fat, I couldn't bloody see what was going on back home."

"We had that problem as well," said Pierto conversationally, wondering if the enormous slab of cake might prove to be a more convincing weapon to use against the set than his own fist. "Though he was just fat. Not pregnant."

"So where's home for you? I mean, I know you're Italian but-

"-Rome," said Pierto, taking a sip of coffee. It was saturated with sugar. "Rome is home." _Or at least Rome was home. _"Though there's some debate about that now. What about you? I mean, I don't know much about Wales but…"

"_Cefn-coed-y-cymmer."_

"I beg your pardon?" said Pierto, repeating the name several times inside his head and once aloud, but coming up with nothing.

"_Cefn-coed-y-cymmer," _said Emma, grinning, "It's Welsh. Don't worry, half the people that live there can't pronounce it right. Have some cake, will you? If I eat all that, I'll end up bigger than her."

Pierto obliged her, cake sticking unpleasantly to his fingers as he nibbled at the icing. As far as cake went, it was delicious but he could see the crumbs he was making peppering her carpet, and felt guilty for the mess. "That's fine then. For a moment, I thought that twelve years' worth of English lessons had just gone out the window," said Pierto. "Sound lovely though."

"It's alright. When it isn't raining."

"Nice for you to get a change of scenery then," said Pierto, nodding his head towards the window as picked a stray sultana off the floor.

"You lived in Rome," said Emma, relaxing enough to sit comfortably on her bed. "If I lived there, I'd never leave. You're brave you know…I mean I felt bad going halfway across the country. You're almost halfway around the planet."

"Not really," said Pierto, turning his attention back to the television. _I wanted to go to Canada. _Scotland had been his backup plan but it still didn't feel like far enough. _No. I never wanted to go to Canada. Or even here. I want to be in Argentina. _

Did Emma smoke? Probably not. He would have to wait to light up a cigarette, though he was having a hard time feeling for his faithful tin, obscured by a mish-mash of beads.

"Well, okay not halfway around the planet," said Emma, rolling her eyes and cradling her coffee, "I mean, you'll be able to go home at Christmas, won't you? I mean, the Korean girl I met yesterday said she won't be able too. I couldn't imagine that, could you?"

_Yes, _thought Pierto, something slipping, sinking, deep, deep down inside him. _Yes, I can imagine that. _

Inside his pockets, his raked the rosary beads, strangling them until he felt the chain burst.

* * *

***Just a brief note to address that, yes, this story has once again been subject to a rewrite. If you are new to this story, then please ignore this part of the message. If you are not, and you have not done so already, please go back and read the new content. This will hopefully be the last rewrite, as I have the next five chapters more or less planned out. The next chapter will be featuring young Integra so keep an eye out for it.**

**Mooblue22**


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